


A Rational Zombie

by ChaosKirin



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: A Little Gore (Not Extensive), Gen, Minor Injuries, Serious Injuries, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 05:58:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18515311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaosKirin/pseuds/ChaosKirin
Summary: Isn't there always a zombie apocalypse AU? In this case, the Queen boys have some issues to deal with... Namely when one of their own is bitten. This is short and illustrated. All illustrations by the author! :D





	A Rational Zombie

“Where are the rest?” Roger frantically asked. “Are you bitten? Are you okay?”  
  
“I didn’t get bitten,” John muttered, then he nodded toward the others, who all seemed fine.  
  
He never answered whether or not he was okay.  
  


After John’s accident, he became increasingly bitter and reclusive. He refused to leave the village,  
and did whatever menial tasks he could find to avoid outrunner duties.  
  
Until the same thing happened to Brian. “They’re becoming more aggressive,” Brian said. “It  
sucks, but, eh. In time it comes to everyone.”  
  
That’s when John finally started to heal.  
  


“I think we’re on the right track,” Roger said. “None of my rats have developed any symptoms.  
I’ll just need a little more time to test it, but I think we have a cure.”  
  
Brian leaned on the counter and asked, “Don’t you think that maybe we should keep it in  
something other than a fragile glass jar?”  
  
***  
  
“He’s hurt–he’s fucking bitten!” John shouted as they opened the gate, dragging Freddie behind  
him. The one time someone convinced him to go on a supply run, he’d failed his partner.  
  
As usual, it was Roger who greeted the returning outrunners. Freddie looked up, the light gone  
from his eyes. He knew he was doomed.  
  
“Look, there’s… something we can try…” Roger mused. “Fred, how do you feel about being a  
guinea pig?”  
  


“One beat per minute,” Roger said. “On average. Though I’m not sure what it’s pumping. His blood is sludge.”

Brian wrinkled his nose. “And you said you got his blood pressure?

“When I can get a read, it’s fourteen-over-two.”

Freddie eyed the cuff around his severely pale arm. His veins were starting to show in little blue- ish rivulets across his skin. “Oh? What’s it supposed to be?”

Roger and Brian looked at him as if he’d grown another head. Or like he’d become a zombie with a heart of gold, which he had. “A lot higher,” Roger replied.

“So I’m not dead,” Freddie mused, wiggling his arm out of the cuff.

His zombie encounter had been a little under a week ago. With nothing to lose, Freddie allowed Roger to test a potential cure on him. At first, when his eyes began to glow, they thought it had failed.

Yet here he was, walking and talking like a regular old human, except he had no pulse. Also, he was ever-so-slowly decomposing, like every other zombie out there, but he had no hunger at all - for anything.

“Well…” Roger gave Brian another uneasy glance. Freddie equated it to one of those looks parents gave each other when they didn’t want to spit out the truth in front of their kid. “Look, let me… Let me just go talk to Brian over here. Don’t go anywhere, for the love of God.”

Like a good child, Freddie sat on the exam table until Roger and Brian left the room, then he hopped to his feet and stretched. He felt nothing by stretching anymore. Apparently his muscles didn’t need it… Still, it felt right, after sitting on the metal slab for almost an hour. After being cooped up in Roger’s lab all week, Freddie found himself stir-crazy and restless; with his handlers away, this seemed like the perfect time to escape.

The best part about living in a zombie-infested wasteland was that every building had a thousand ways to escape, while also having a thousand ways to trap brain-dead zombies inside. Luckily, Freddie wasn’t the brain-dead type, and easily worked the latch to let himself outside.

He didn’t even have time to enjoy his first breath of cool air before someone screamed. Oh. Right. Fuck. He was a zombie, and it looked like he’d just escaped from the lab.

Granted, he didn’t think he _looked_ as bad as most of the undead just yet. He was pale as snow, and his eyes were a brilliant, wretched red, but he didn’t move like them, and didn’t grunt and groan like them, so…

So…

Someone was pointing a rifle at him.

He wanted to try to reason with these villagers he called friends. He even recognized a few that might listen. However, he also really didn’t want to be shot, and his instinct directed him to do the worst possible thing he could have done.

He ran.

Freddie heard the rifle fire, and felt the impact. The force caused him to stumble a little. He realized that he’d been shot, though the panic spurred him on without allowing him to really understand. After all, it should have hurt, but the only sensation he felt was pins-and-needles somewhere around his ribs.

He’d hunted zombies before. He knew their patterns. The ones that were intelligent enough to try to escape always ran in a straight line, so as soon as he was out of sight, he ducked a sharp left down the first street he came to.

Bad idea. Someone _else_ screamed. _Why were there so many people walking around?!_

“No, no no no!” Freddie muttered. If this kept up, he’d be cornered and decapitated before he could explain himself. His only hope remained in vacating the streets entirely.

Hopping over a fence as the assembling mob discussed his whereabouts, he knocked on the first door he came to. Then, as the voices grew closer, he knocked more frantically. _Please,_ he begged whatever deities existed out there in the universe. _Please let someone be home._

The door opened just a crack, though it was enough for Freddie to shoulder it open the rest of the way and let himself in. Stumbling on a bunched-up area rug, he crashed to the floor and scrambled to make sure he was facing away from his savior. “It’s okay, trust me,” he managed. “I’m not gonna hurt you.” 

“Er… Freddie? I haven’t seen you in days. We thought you were…” He recognized that voice. Turning, he looked over his shoulder.

Miles tripped over his own feet and fell against the door, closing it. “Shit! _Shit!_ Fuck!” he swore, then he continued swearing, apparently for good measure, as he scrambled for something to use as a weapon.

“Miles!” Freddie said. “Settle down. I’m not going to hurt you, dear.” “Are you talking? Zombies don’t fucking talk!”

Freddie held up his hands, showing he meant no harm. “Roger’s been working on a cure.”

“Some fucking cure!”

“I know.” Freddie felt horribly exposed and frightened for the first time since the attack. And the pins-and-needles feeling in his ribs was spreading. His arm felt numb now, as it slowly dipped toward the floor.

“Are you shot?” Miles asked.

“Yeah, I think?” Freddie replied. “I can’t really… It doesn’t hurt, but I can feel it.”

Miles stood by the door, threateningly holding an umbrella. “You’re not gonna attack me as soon as I turn around?”

“I’ll try not to, darling,” Freddie said, as flatly as he could.

Even so, Miles never turned away as he skirted around Freddie. He disappeared into his kitchen, and returned a few minutes later with a set of salad tongs.

Salad tongs.

“What are you going to do with those?” Freddie asked.

Miles sat down next to him. “Scoop out the bullet?” he replied.

By this time, Freddie’s arm was so weak that he could barely hold it up. Situating himself comfortably, he used his good arm to prop up the bad one. Miles curled his top lip, met Freddie’s eyes, and then…

Well, having a pair of tongs stuck into his ribs felt really odd, to say the least. “I think I got it,” Miles said. “It’s like sludge in here, just so you know.”

“I gathered, from what Roger said,” Freddie grumbled. “My blood pressure is… Like… ten.”

Freddie knew that’s not what Roger said, but fuck him if he could ever remember numbers. Besides, it wasn’t like it mattered. Did _anything_ matter anymore?

“So, I guess this means we’re not having sex anymore?” Miles asked.

The question was comically casual, and so out of left field, that Freddie was caught off guard. He laughed heartily, both from relief and from the absurdity of the inquiry. “That’s what you’re worried about, dear? I’m afraid I wouldn’t even be able to get it up anymore. Though for you… Maybe…”

Miles held up the salad tongs, a gristly, green-muck-covered bullet wedged between the ends. “I’ll pass, I think. Does that feel better?”

It did, actually. Freddie reached around to where he’d been shot, pressing against the skin. The tingling was receding now, though he couldn’t help wincing. “I doubt this is going to heal on its own,” he said.

“It’s shallow. Like I said, your blood is like sludge. It’s gritty. So I think it stopped the bullet before it got very far. No wonder zombies are so hard to kill.” Realizing what he’d said, Miles looked up, eyes wide. “Oh, Freddie, I’m sorry…”

“It’s okay,” Freddie said, smiling. “Though, could you be a dear and fetch Roger for me? I think I’m going to be in a bit of trouble…”

The truth was, Roger felt terrible for what he’d done to Freddie. The serum hadn’t been adequately tested enough to know that it wouldn’t prevent rot, even if it allowed the victim of a zombie attack to keep their mind. Besides, Freddie volunteered himself as a guinea pig, so it wasn’t a total loss.

And they’d learned a lot. In fact, it was all because of Freddie that they were able to make a stable cure.

“How’d it happen this time?” Roger asked, glancing at the detached arm in his friend’s hand.

“Dogs,” Freddie muttered. His voice was getting thinner. Raspy. They hoped it’d last, though they had no idea for how long. “I think we need to get rid of them, dear. It’s the second time they’ve torn bits of me off. We could get cats instead.”

“They always get in somehow.” Roger reached for the arm, then drew back, covering his nose. “Oof. You’re getting ripe, Fred.”

“I’m a zombie.”

“Still, you could _bathe.”_

“I’m _dead.”_ Freddie narrowed red eyes, though he couldn’t hide the smile. “No amount of soap is going to fix that, darling.”

Before Roger could dodge, Freddie was using his own detached arm to aim a swing at Roger’s head. “Eyyyyyuck!” Roger snapped, giving Freddie a shove.

Despite his condition, Freddie was surprisingly still quite agile, and managed to keep his balance with a well-timed flail of his remaining arm. He did let go of the other one, though, which Roger reflexively caught.

Gross.

“And technically, you’re _un_ dead.” Roger grumbled. “The dead can’t hang around and bother me. Sit down, I’ll sew it back on.”

“Oh, what’s the difference,” Freddie asked, popping himself up on a stool. “Either way, I’ll soon be in the ground.”

Roger very seldom heard any negativity from Freddie. He felt as if he should say something, so as he searched his kit for wire and a needle, he replied, “We might eventually get the cure to work on you. We’ll keep trying.”

When he turned, Freddie’s expression was distant. Sad. He quickly snapped out of it, though, grinning. “Don’t be ridiculous. If you cure me, who’s going to run unhindered into zombie territory for supplies?”

Roger managed to _not_ say what he was thinking for once - that eventually, they’d be able to cure all the zombies, and there wouldn’t be any left. And also, that eventually Freddie would deteriorate to the point where it would be far kinder to…

Roger tried not to think about that. It’d be a long time off, anyway.

“It’s okay to be sad, Freddie,” Roger said. He took a scraping of the partially calcified green-hued blood from Freddie’s open shoulder socket, smearing it on a petri dish for use in the finished cure. Every time Freddie injured himself, Roger would take what he needed. It happened often enough.

“I know,” Freddie said. “Look at all the people I get to save, though. Me, Rog.” He shrugged, upsetting Roger’s efforts to properly line up his arm. “You know, it’s hard to be sad when you realize you’re saving the world, isn’t it?”

It was hard to argue with that.  
  


***  
  


John found Freddie sitting on the cliff overlooking the Clear Zone.

“Hey,” John called softly. He meant to sound marginally confident, though his voice faltered. He only possessed the energy and willpower to _not run away._

“John?” Freddie turned. For the first time, John saw his blood-red eyes, the stare almost reminiscent of every feverishly hungry zombie that had every tried to devour him. John stumbled backwards as he experienced a surge of primal fear, only to realize the ridiculousness of his actions. Freddie’s gaze was soft, afraid, and friendly, if not disturbing.

He knew what Roger’s serum did to Freddie. Everyone knew. But to see its effects up close… “S–sorry,” John stammered, running his fingers through his hair. “It’s… just…”

Freddie turned away. “I’ve been trying to talk to you for weeks,” he said. “I needed you.”

No one needed John. He was a screw-up. Not only had he nearly gotten himself torn apart, but he

let Freddie get bitten when they were supposed to be watching out for each other. Still… “I know,” John said. “I couldn’t… After what I did to you.”

Freddie looked over his shoulder again, quizzically arching an eyebrow. “What _you_ did? Is that why you’ve been running away from me? You think _you_ did this?”

Now that he was so close to Freddie, John couldn’t help staring. His skin was pale and green, run through with yellow veins of decay. His face was sunken in, and those eerie, glowing red eyes were set so far back that they were completely surrounded in deep shadow. John nodded.

“You want to sit?” Freddie asked. “It’s okay?”

“Yeah.”

Carefully, John arranged himself on the edge of the cliff. At this proximity, the pungent stink of undeath assaulted his senses and made his eyes water, but he was used to it enough from outrunner duties that he could endure.

Freddie snickered. “It’s pretty bad, isn’t it? You can say. It’s why I’m out here and not in the mess hall.”

“I’m not here to make it worse,” John muttered. He met Freddie’s eyes, which, despite everything, showed a spark of amusement. Unable to help it, he reached for Freddie’s bare arm, shivering as he contacted the rough skin.

So, so cold.

“I’m sorry,” John said. “I should have been watching out for you.” “You did,” Freddie said. “You got me back home.”

“Look at you, though,” John pressed. “You died, Freddie. You’re dead. And… Not only that, but… But Roger’s cure…”

“Was actually a huge breakthrough, dear. You know that, though.”

“I do.” John bowed his head, sighing. He had nothing else to say. Even if Freddie didn’t blame him for what happened, _it_ _still happened._ And it couldn’t be un-done.  
  


For the zombies that could be restored to their former human selves, the cure was easy. With the walls around the village re-configured to lure and corral zombies into a holding pen, they just needed to be led in and darted. Their minds returned to them, then their blood thinned and warmed, then they were whole.

But there were a few with missing limbs or irrecoverable wounds, and a few without skin or muscle or vital organs who couldn’t be completely saved. They were given Roger’s half-cure–the one that Freddie had. The one that allowed them to think and reason and laugh or cry. To mourn themselves or their lost humanity.

A few couldn’t be saved at all. Those were put out of their misery.

Brian sat with Freddie above the holding pen, watching the newly-cured sort themselves out far below. “It didn’t work, huh?” he asked.

Freddie shook his head. “Roger thinks I have ten years at most. Maybe less. And…” He looked at his hands.

After a minute–perhaps two–Brian bumped his shoulder. “And?” “And I haven’t seen John. Again.”

“He’ll come around.”

Freddie nodded, but said, “He still thinks it’s his fault. But it’s not, you know? It’s not. It was bad luck. John did everything right, Brian. But sometimes those sneaky little bastards are _smart as_ _anything.”_

At least the cure did one thing to the half-turned. It slowed the process of decomposition, and increased their blood pressure just enough so that they didn’t stink quite so horrendously. Unable to help himself–purely for science, presumably–Brian leaned in and took a whiff of his half- zombie friend.

Dead leaves in the fall. Standing water in a bog. Rainwater in a ditch. The slightest dash of methane…

“Do I meet your approval, darling?” Freddie asked. Brian felt his cheeks flush. “Yeah. Yes.”

“You science geeks, I swear,” Freddie said, albeit with good nature.

Below them, the former zombies were hugging. Crying. Realizing how close they came to oblivion. Roger’s face watched from a window on the far side of the pen, judging, Brian imagined, when it might be safe to open the door and let the crowd out into the camp.

Freddie sighed.

“Why do you do this to yourself, Fred?” Brian asked. “Watching them take the cure? You’re here _every time.”_

“We’re all scarred, aren’t we?” Freddie replied. “Me, obviously. John. You.” He reached up and traced the jagged line across Brian’s face. His fingers were so cold. “And Roger, though his scars are mostly in his heart, I think.”

“So why are you _here?”_ Brian asked again. “Because, dear, this is how I heal.”

Seemed like a piss-poor way to heal, reminding yourself of something you could never be. Even so, if it helped Freddie, who was Brian to question it?

And so they sat and watched the pit, until the last cured zombie filed out. They’d all be marked– either by extensive scarring or a slightly green cast to their skin, or red eyes. But they’d all go on to lead normal lives, while those like Freddie suffered the constant reminder that every passing moment was just another grain of sand falling through an hourglass.

Some time later, John struggled up onto the roof and sat next to Freddie. “Sorry it didn’t work,” he said.

“I thought I’d lost you for another few weeks,” Freddie replied, his voice almost icy, even through its warm relief.

“I thought you had, too,” John said. “But I’m not in the habit of repeating my mistakes.” After a pause, he added, “I’m sorry.”

Freddie leaned on John, who shivered. As the sun set and the heat of the day turned to the typical desert chill, Brian shivered, as well.

“It’ll be okay,” Freddie said, wrapping his arms around them both. “Look, it’s hard now, but think about ten years into the future, darlings. Twenty. _A hundred._ This’ll all be a memory. Something we solved. My name’ll be there, and Roger’s too. And yours, I bet.” He gave them a quick squeeze. “This wasn’t for nothing. It wasn’t for nothing. Don’t drown me in all this pity, all right? I’ve got another decade left, and I intend to make the most of it. Eh? All right?”

He stood. John and Brian looked up at him.

“Don’t just sit there,” Freddie said. “We’ve gotta go let that cage of zombie gerbils free in Roger’s lab. It’ll be hilarious. Who’s with me?” He beckoned with a hand, before swinging around to climb down the ladder.

Brian sighed. John rubbed his chin. At the same time, they held out their hands for a round of rock-paper-scissors. One of them was going to have to stop Freddie, and deterring a stubborn zombie was never a voluntary chore.


End file.
